I'm getting drunk on your noble deeds
by MsTonksLupin
Summary: Modern AU. The uncertainty of the financial crisis has led to the rising of a fascist underground organization in Paris. Les Amis de l'ABC is a group of political activist students. Join them in their crusade against racism, abuse, poverty, inequality, in their struggle to get rid of their chains, to be accepted, to be loved and to believe, in their venture to immortality.
1. I'm getting drunk on your noble deeds

**This is my first attempt to write a long Les Miserables fic, and it is going to be modern AU which makes things even harder, so I would really appreciate your opinion and constructive criticism! Please tell me what you think about it!**

**Thank you so much for reading!**

**I hope you'll enjoy!**

_Baby you need to leave,__  
__cause I'm getting drunk on your noble deeds.__  
__It doesn't matter that they don't get done,____  
__when I feel this cold they're like the fucking sun…_

_Vampire Smile, Kyla la Grange_

_Blood. Pounding in the veins and running on the skin. A wild heartbeat in the ears. Don't close your eyes. Give them your chest. A heart racing. Bum. Bum. Bum._

_And then light. And the heart's beating even faster. _

"_Do you permit it?"_

_And a touch. It's alright. You are not alone._

_Bum. Bum. Bum._

_And the world erupts and breaks in a million different pieces._

_And then dark._

Julien Enjolras was an only child from a wealthy family who lived in the country. He was studying political science in the Sorbonne, and he was the leader of a student activist political group, called _Les Amis de l'_ _ABC. _

He was a man of twenty two, who owned an extraordinary beauty, difficult to describe, easy to compare to an ancient Greek marble statue. Pale skin, piercing dark eyes, fierce posture, gold locks surrounding his face, in a surreal way which convinced everybody that he came from another era.

He lived in an apartment full of papers and books, and nothing more, really. He didn't own a television, only a computer for his work. As Bahorel had often teased him, he lived like a monk.

However, he didn't even realize it. His clothes were always clean and there were no holes in them, he just didn't own many. He usually forgot to eat and to sleep, that was true, but he never forgot to shower and to pay his bills.

However, as much handsome as he was, he was equally dangerous, a true Spartan warrior, with a passionate, determined heart, someone could say it was also made of marble.

Julien Enjolras was a nationalist, in a very peculiar sense of the word. France was neither simply a land for him, nor the people She beheld. France was an idea, its land was a tomb for all those who had fought for freedom but never really died the past centuries. France was Liberty. And France was Revolution.

And Enjolras believed in Liberty more than anything else. He forgot to eat – La Republique was his food. He had never in his life loved a woman – Freedom was his lover, his mistress and his friend.

But he did have real friends as well. Friends with whom he shared the same ambitions, beliefs and convictions. They were his _amis, _and if anybody looked further into Enjolras, he would see that he deeply cared for them, in a particularly unique way, as he wouldn't mind them putting their lives in danger for their cause.

As a true Spartan, Enjolras would feel happy for all of them, including himself, dying in the name of freedom.

However, Nationalism had become an extremely frightening word in France during the last year. Nationalism could bear an entirely different meaning than Enjolras' love for his Patria, and to many people that meaning had become quite fascinating recently. After the bubble of the economic crisis exploded in Europe, affecting France, though to a smaller extent than other countries, a nationalist group appeared to take advantage of people's fear and uncertainty to boost their patriotic feelings up, and eventually start a war against immigrants.

After gaining much of the common support, the organization had finally started to show fearlessly its racist and fascist extents and origins. The most frightening of all things, was that people, in the twenty first century, after two world wars, had clearly not taken a good History lesson. The amount of followers was growing day by day, causing France to sink under a veil of darkness.

Les Amis de l'ABC had noticed the nightmare from the beginning of its appearance, and had started to fight it passionately when the other people were still indifferent to it, and simply shrugged their heads, ignoring its danger. The government was proving itself incapable of taking care of the growing fascist ideology within the country, and several activist groups, as well as Les Amis, would go anywhere to bring freedom back to their Patria.

That morning, Julien Enjolras was thrown up from his bed, with the pang on his chest which didn't leave him lately in the mornings, after a nightmare he could never remember after five minutes passed.

Sometimes he would simply ignore it, some others he would just sigh with irritation, that such annoyances would try to stand between him and his cause.

That was one of those times. He led his tired body in the shower, and let the hot water relief his aching muscles. He felt much better after being clean and ready for university. He threw on a red t-shirt and a pair of black jeans and walked out of his apartment, with his hair still wet and without having anything than a bitter coffee for breakfast.

He went to the University by foot even though his apartment was a good twenty minutes of walking. When he arrived, his mobile phone buzzed and he took it out of his pocket.

It was a message from Laigle. "Good morning! Musain, eight o'clock?"

Laigle, or Bossuet, was a quite unfortunate, yet always cheerful young man who was studying economics. His origins were from Morocco and his dark skin had made him a victim of racist attacks more than once, even though he was a third generation French citizen.

"Yes." Was Enjolras' laconic reply, before he entered the classroom to begin his day.

"...You and me, my friends, have never met real democracy. You might had always have the right to vote, but how can a country in which there are still people starving, homeless, abused and uneducated be called democratic? How can you talk about equality when the system itself sets the gap between Bossuet and the others, just because he's black, between Feuilly and the others, just because he's not wealthy, Jehan and the others, just because he doesn't prefer girls in his bed?

But now, _mes amis_, our very freedom is threatened and abused. How can we allow neonazis to appear in the twenty first century, in the country of French Revolution and May '68, in the country which had always been the beating heart of liberty?

We won't let the rats take over our Patria! We will fight to be free, to be educated. We will fight for Eponine's right to go to the University. And if democracy is bound to die this time, only to be reborn from the blood of angry men, let this blood by ours, let us die with her, because we _will_ be reborn!"

Everybody cheered, whistled and applauded. Then, a voice was heard. "Excuse _me, _m'sieur, but universities already are free in France!" it was Eponine, Marius' friend and neighbor, who had attended a few more meetings in the past. Nobody knew much about her, not even Marius. All they knew was that her family was very poor, that she had a litter of younger siblings and that she wasn't able to attend university.

"Indeed they are." Nodded Enjolras impatiently. "But for you to not attend one, there clearly are other kind of issues which don't let you have a proper education. You have the right to be educated as well as the rest of us."

Eponine snorted and looked away. "You talk of it as if it's easy." She turned her head to face him again. "Not all of us 'been born lucky, sir."

"You are not what you're born, but what you make yourself to be." Replied Enjolras coolly.

The tension in the room was touchable, and Marius Pontmercy had almost regretted it that he had brought Eponine with him. Enjolras indeed didn't know the way she had grown up, he hadn't heard the screams and the swearing from the next apartment, he hadn't seen the little twins wandering around alone in the dangerous streets, wearing nothing but rags.

"Ah, the noble venture of a man to make himself who he wants to be, only to go and commit suicide for a country which doesn't give a shit about him, like a lovestruck teenager in vampire romance novels!"

They had almost forgotten Grantaire's drunken presence in the room, as he was hidden behind a table in the corner, an empty bottle of wine still in his hand, his dark curls messy and his leather jacket stained. The silence that fell was only broken by a spontaneous giggle from Eponine's way.

"Nobody's forcing you to stay and commit suicide, winesack." Enjolras sounded extremely annoyed and he refused to face the other man. They all knew how much Grantaire's cynicism drove Enjolras insane, and that their leader wouldn't lose a chance to show his disgust and his contempt, quite harshly sometimes. "You are more than welcome to leave."

The drunkard smiled calmly and shook his head. "I'm not planning to, O fearless leader, unless you ask me to. There is wine here, and I care enough for my friends to witness them throwing their lives away."

"Don't you try to convince us that you care for anything." Hissed Enjolras.

Combeferre, held a hand up. "Enough, Enjolras. Grantaire, stop this nonsense. Nobody is going to die. We're grown up citizens, in a democratic country, practically, at least, and we have the right to protest for the rising of a fascist ideology! Nobody can kill us for that."

Etienne Combeferre was a medical student and a passionate revolutionary. He was also Enjolras' right hand. Combeferre completed Enjolras, and he was the only one who could sometimes bring him down to Earth and think in a different way. He believed in revolution through education, science and philosophy, he valued art much more than Enjolras and he saw the future in people rising with the power of their minds.

"I'm not a naive teenager anymore, Etienne." Slurred Grantaire. "Three immigrants have been murdered during the last month. Do you think they'll think twice to slaughter any leftist revolutionary student who tries to get in their way?"

"Then why not let them kill more immigrants?" asked usually cheerful Bossuet, coldly.

"Why not let them take over France, maybe begin a third World War?" pointed Courfeyrac.

Enjolras walked towards Grantaire and leaned forward, pressing his hands on the table. "This is war, Grantaire." He said slowly. His face was inches away from Grantaire's, and the drunkard could feel his warm breath brushing on his skin. He flinched, and pressed his fingers around his bottles.

"And you already are the fallen heroes." Breathed Grantaire. "But I don't mind, I even wish I could believe as much as you do and go kill myself just now. I would never try to change your minds. After all, that's what I like in you, Apollo. The passion which I lack!"

"Don't call me that." Whispered Enjolras, shooting him a death stare.

Grantaire was a cynic who only found pleasure in drinking and sometimes having casual drunken sex with girls he met in bars and never saw again. Someone would even say he was on the verge of depression. Grantaire did not believe in anything, he had nothing to actually keep him going, nothing to look forward to, nothing to motivate him to get out of bed in the morning and to keep breathing during the day. No one could imagine what would have happened of Grantaire, hadn't he met Enjolras. Because Enjolras was Grantaire's most addictive drink. Grantaire believed in Enjolras. In fact, he loved him obsessively, in a way which pained him and confused him, in a way he could not explain. He loved his piercing, bloodthirsty eyes, the way a look could make his heart race painfully, he loved the shine of his hair in the sunlight, and the way he would be blinded by the unexpected light which intruded in his dark life, he loved his voice when he gave a passionate speech, but he masochistically loved its sound even more, when Enjolras was furious at him.

Grantaire would easily die for Enjolras.

Enjolras, on the other side, would never forget the day he met Grantaire.


	2. Baby I need a friend

**Thank you so much for your lovely reviews, you are so kind and it meant a lot to know that you liked the first chapter!**

**Here I hesitantly and sneakily post the second one.**

**I really hope it is in character!**

**Please tell me your opinion, whatever that may be!**

_Baby I need a friend,__  
__but I'm a vampire smile, you'll meet a sticky end.__  
__I'm here trying not to bite your neck,__  
__but it's beautiful and I'm gonna get..._

_Vampire Smile, Kyla La Grange_

Some people prefer the sun, and feel depressed when it rains. Some others, who are on the more romantic side, find amusement in nostalgic strolls in the storm.

Julien Enjolras belonged in none of the two groups of people, for the weather had a very insignificant role in Julien Enjolras' mood. The only change in his plans every time it rained was that he would walk twenty minutes to his university under an umbrella, ignoring Joly's warnings that wet shoes would give him his death.

Of course, Enjolras would become a little upset if it rained or snowed on a protest day, as there was a possibility for the protest to be cancelled, not that he would ever have a problem to walk and shout for immigrants' rights soaked wet.

The reason the weather didn't affect his happiness, was the simple fact that he rarely felt the urge to go out for a walk in the morning of a sunny day, and that was because even if he didn't have lectures and lessons to attend, studying to do, or an aforementioned protest planned, he would have a good deal of things to arrange on his beloved laptop.

In conclusion, there always was an excuse for Julien to stay inside in a morning.

The day when he met Grantaire, was a rare exception. It was one of those Sundays when he had woken up quite cheerful, after the successful meeting with a feminist organization the previous night, and having finished his studying and other duties, he decided to go out for a stroll and possibly a coffee, in order to relax for a while before returning to his deeds. He was so cheerful, that he didn't even try to think of an excuse when Courfeyrac invited him to a morning coffee with Combeferre, and accepted, leaving both of his friends speechless.

He had left a little earlier from his apartment in order to be able to walk for a while in Paris streets by the Seine, near the café they had their rendezvous in. The sun was shining brightly, burning his bare arms as he had gotten rid of his denim jacket, and reflecting on his gold locks, sending goosebumps to female university students who had gone out shopping. Much to their dismay, the Greek God with the red checkered shirt, had no eyes for any of them as he walked beside the river, his mind heavily occupied with an underground nationalist organization who had just started to rise.

His attention was caught by the Seine-side book sellers, and he walked to the stand which was on his way, never able to say no to browsing through old vintage books, flirting with the possibility to find a rare gem he could never stumble upon elsewhere.

Unlike the other old men in parkas, that stand belonged to a young man around his age, maybe a year older, who was wearing a striped navy sweater over his jeans and an old cap on his head. He noticed a bottle of beer in his hand. He wouldn't shoot the man a second glance to be able to say more about his appearance, unless it became obvious that under the cap there was a Martian.

There were some lovely books that he had never heard of in his life before, and that said a lot, given that Enjolras needed books more than he needed oxygen from the age of four. There were also many faded, yellowish versions of classic pieces. His fingers trailed circles on _Das Kapital, _and then he took _The Social Contract _in his hands, opening it carefully and looking at it tenderly.

"Quite overrated." He heard a voice. He raised his eyes surprised, only to face the book seller's own fixed on his.

There was something strange about that young man. From under his cap peeked dark messy curls, which almost reached his eyes. A pale blue pair of eyes which were extremely difficult to read. He noticed a teasing sparkle in his calm glance, but then thought he had imagined it. "How do _you_ know?" he asked, immediately realizing that he had sounded unexpectedly rude.

"I have read it, of course." The man stated matter-of-factly, raising his shoulders.

"You have?" Enjolras asked, astonished. Usually the book sellers by the Seine couldn't even help him find a book he needed.

"I have read every single book I sell." The man took a sip from his beer, suddenly looking rather tired, as if Enjolras was a five year old who made questions with obvious answers.

Enjolras felt startled. He hadn't been used to people having such a position towards him. "And what would you recommend me, then, as Rousseau is definitely not good _enough_?"

"I don't know, _m'sieur. _My personal favourite is Schopenhauer."

Enjolras stared at him incredulously. "But he was a cynic." He explained slowly, as if he was telling him that Schopenhauer was a nazi elephant.

"Yes. And so am I."

Enjolras remained quiet for a while, then nodded. "I see."

"Is there something bad with that?" the seller asked.

"No, you have the right to choose your own beliefs, I guess."

"And what are you, _Jean Jacques'_ true continuer?"

Enjolras immediately felt that he was being mocked, and he most definitely didn't like that. "How much does this cost?" he heard himself asking, coolly.

"That would be five euros, but you can have it for free."

The man's teasing tone was driving him crazy. Just to pull his leg, he took five euros out of his pocket and handed them to him.

It didn't occur to him that he already owned _The Social Contract, _in three different editions, before he had walked away.

He entered the café. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were already sitting on a table, and had even ordered coffees and croissants.

Combeferre smiled behind his spectacles when he spotted him. "Look who's come out of his nest!"

"You are late!" smiled Courfeyrac. "We'd thought you'd changed your mind! Poor Etienne wouldn't be able to get over such a disappointment!"

"Poor Etienne needs not to fear, as I've made an appearance after all!" Enjolras smiled slightly while taking a seat near them. "I have news concerning the feminist group!"

Courfeyrac raised his eyes on the ceiling, and stuffed a croissant in Enjolras' half opened mouth, startling him. "Be silent for a while! Enjoy the sun, enjoy the ladies in tight jeans! I don't want to hear about the feminist rights today, unless you have some _deeper _news about a certain feminist you've met, if you know what I mean!"

Enjolras obeyed and allowed the two friends to enjoy a pleasant, unusually careless coffee.

After about an hour later, they paid and got up, as Combeferre wanted to walk by the Seine.

When they got out of the shop, the first thing the medical student noticed, was the book stands opposite them! "Ah, _des livres_!" he exclaimed happily, quickly passing the road and making his way to the very book stand Enjolras had bought _The Social Contract _from.

"Etienne, I don't think that's a good idea…" said Enjolras, but it was too late. Courfeyrac had also followed Combeferre there, and he had no choice but to escort them.

The man with the cap immediately recognized him. "Look who's here!" he said with a sarcastic smile. "Apollo, I see that you've brought your friends as well!"

"What did you call me?" Enjolras asked incredulously.

"I do apologize, I think it slipped my lips." The man's face was slightly colored now.

Courfeyrac's eyes moved from the seller to Enjolras. "Do you guys know each other?"

"I was just browsing through his books." Muttered Enjolras, annoyed.

"Indeed he was! He even had the kindness to buy an old stinking Rousseau!"

Courfeyrac immediately turned his head to see his friend's reaction at someone who had just called his beloved Jean Jackques _stinking_, and Combeferre sighed. "Not another edition of _The Social Contract, _I hope!"

"How did you know?" smiled the seller.

"That's typical Enjolras for you!" Combeferre returned to the books.

"Enjolras?" mouthed the seller, smiling, as if he was talking to himself, trying to see how it sounded.

"Ah, I see you have a fair collection of the Ancient Greeks! I might buy something which has slipped my own!" said Combeferre cheerfully.

"Ah, the Greeks!"

"Have you read them?" it was Combeferre's turn to raise his head to the man, surprised.

"A few." He admitted.

"And which one did you find the most fascinating?"

"None, actually. They quite bore me! Maybe apart from _The Libation Bearers, _or in Greek _Oresteia. _I quite liked that one!"

Courfeyrac had really admired his honesty and chuckled happily. "Well, they bore me too!" he gave him his hand, and the seller shook it. "I'm Courfeyrac! Remi Courfeyrac!"

"And I'm Pylades!"

Enjolras couldn't hide a snort at the man's attempt to be humorous, but he found, astonished, that Combeferre was laughing whole heartedly as he paid for _Oresteia. _

"And I'm Combeferre, it was a pleasure to meet you, Pylades!"

"The pleasure was all mine!"

And the friends had left, and soon forgotten about witty young Pylades, who most clearly had gotten on their leader's nerves.

After a week, the weather was cloudy, and Enjolras found himself walking by the Seine again, this time because he had found it impossible to concentrate on his work in his apartment.

He was lost in his thoughts, when he heard a voice. "Hey, Apollo!"

He stopped, not knowing exactly why, and looked around. He felt surprised to find that the voice was indeed addressing him. It was the book seller at his stand, another bottle of beer in his hand, wearing a leather jacket and a dark green scarf around his neck. He decided to pretend that he hadn't heard him, but then he noticed that the man had caught his glance.

He walked to the stand, quite annoyed. "Why did you call me that?"

"Good morning to you as well!"

"Good morning. Why did you call me that?"

"I can't help it." Pylades raised his shoulders. "It just comes out naturally."

"I see."

"But you _did _answer to the call." He whistled. "Maybe you think that you are Apollo himself! Then I shouldn't give you the book that I had for you, but _The Portrait of Dorian Grey _instead!"

"Don't be ridiculous! What book did you want to give me?"

The man handed him an old little creamy book.

"What is that?"

"It's poetry."

"I'm sorry but I don't read poetry, that would be better for my friend, Jean Prouvaire."

"It isn't well known. It is from a Polish poet."

"It might also be suitable for Feuilly, then."

"You do have a lot of friends! Then again, it doesn't surprise me. That poet was also a nihilist."

"Then I don't think any of my friends would appreciate it." Enjolras said coldly, placing the book back on the stand. "Thank you for your concern anyway. Good day." He turned around to leave.

"Apollo!" he heard the voice behind him.

He stopped and turned. "What?" he almost snapped.

"I'd love to discuss your political and philosophical views with you. You seem fascinating."

"Well, very kind of you to say, but I don't think I have time at the moment."

"Let's have coffee tomorrow morning. I can easily close the stand for a day."

"I'm sorry, but I have a lecture at the University."

"The day after tomorrow then."

"I have University again."

"The day after tomorrow is a Saturday."

Enjolras sighed.

"Yes, but I have work to do."

"You can't always run from me, Apollo. All I'm asking is a coffee. Who knows, you might turn a nihilist to a believer!"

That possibility was horribly tempting for a believer such as Enjolras, though with that man it seemed almost impossible. He bit his lip and considered what he had to do that week. He finally decided that a coffee wouldn't hurt. One believer more would always be a step closer to freedom.

"Fine." He sighed. "Sunday morning. In the café across the street."

Pylades offered him a gentle smile. "I knew you'd come round, Apollo! I'll be the one wearing revolutionary red!"

Enjolras sighed and nodded, then turned around and walked away, his hands in his pockets. That man terribly confused him, and he had already regretted accepting his invite.


	3. Cause it's beautiful

**This chapter is some kind of a filler, it might be a little boring but I promise it gets slightly better in the following ones:) I really hope you'll like it! Please tell me your opinion, you don't know how much I appreciate it!**

**Thank you soooo much for your kind words and advice, you have been very kind!**

That Sunday, Grantaire had woken up with a severely throbbing head, undoubtedly a result of the previous night's hangover. He most definitely was used to such headaches, what with being a quite experienced drinker, but never in the past had he woken with something important waiting to be done by him. Usually, he would spend the morning curled in his bed, waiting for the pain to become less unbearable, then he would light a cigarette and head to his book stand by the Seine after buying a strong coffee on his way. Some days he would entirely forget to open the stand, as it would appear to be completely impossible for him to abandon the comfort as well as the decadence of his sheets. He found a morbid pleasure in any reminder of his decay, from his unshaven cheeks and his untidy apartment, to the hours he spent doing nothing, and most importantly to the feeling of alcohol running in his veins, and the very awareness of its effects on his whole being.

Grantaire didn't want to make an effort, he found it difficult to care about anything around him, to take life seriously and to try to believe in a value, in a cause or in himself. That was the main reason he hadn't drawn for a long time.

The truth was that he had tried to change _that. _He had strongly tried to find a point in his own art, to have faith in it, to explore his limits and to challenge himself not to give up. He had failed. He had no other motive to continue trying. The colors faded, the charcoals became heavy as rocks, his oil paints drier than his throat, the pencils became grayer than they already were, they now owned a color which reminded him of chains. They had become his own prison. He had lost his inspiration, his enthusiasm, his professors looked at his work and failed to hide their sighs, it was obvious that he had no talent. The need for his art soon was replaced by the need for wine. He dropped his art studies and became a challenger of his luck, searching for a different job every month, should his finances necessitate it, and spending numb periods in between when he'd simply get drunk and have casual sex with nameless girls he'd meet in pubs.

He quite liked the job of the book seller, more than he did with the super market cashier and even the bar waiter. He had been sacked from the latter post for drinking more than actually serving.

And now, all of a sudden, without really knowing where that had come from, he had something to do that morning, something to drag him out of bed and in the bathroom to throw some water in his bleary eyes.

How the hell had he arranged a rendezvous with a Greek God who was fairly interested in Rousseau? What had he been thinking? How did he let a man he barely knew startle him, in which way had that happened, what did his unsteady heartbeat mean at the sight of that man? The first time Apollo had walked to his stand, light had blinded Grantaire violently, without a decent explanation, without a damn warning, and he felt unpleasantly confused. Why would a twenty-something boy keep him awake for a week and give him the need to drink even more?

It was the flame in his dark eyes, the flame which his own frozen ones lacked and needed. It was the tone in the passionate manner of his talking, like a nostalgic outmoded reminder of the very French Revolution, which had never been nothing more in Grantaire's eyes than a mass slaughter which only succeeded in bringing another distasteful king. The stranger fascinated Grantaire in an almost obsessive way, yet he didn't have the faintest idea why such a thing would happen, and why a cynic was pulling a red shirt over his head in order to go at a café in an hour he normally wouldn't even have opened his book stand, to talk politics with an old fashioned revolutionary whose name he hardly knew.

Wrong. He did know his name. _Enjolras._

While he was walking to the café, his heart would race in the beat of that name. _Enjolras. _He had seen the light in a manner a blind man knows the light is waiting for him, but his eyes have no intention to accept and welcome it.

He entered the café, and grinned slightly, trying to remember how to breathe when noticing Enjolras already seated on an empty table.

The man had something of an angel, of an angel horribly capable of the darkest actions. He was wearing a denim shirt and was staring at his watch, obviously annoyed.

Grantaire rushed through the tables and took a seat beside him. "I thought you'd never come!" he breathed.

"Well, what a coincidence, I had beginning to believe the same for you! You are late. I should be going in half an hour."

Grantaire's heart sank, but he'd never let it show. "Don't you worry, it already is a great honour that you spare thirty minutes of your venture to change the world for my filthy excuse of a presence!"

Enjolras sighed. "I am sorry sir, but I have to admit this is awkward. Please, tell me the exact reason you'd want us to share a coffee."

Grantaire had already ordered a coffee with drops of brandy, causing Enjolras to raise an eyebrow. "Why, I would like to talk with you, of course! What do you believe in?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"I am certain that it was very clearly stated. What do you do in your life, who do you support, which is your ideology, what do you believe in?"

"You cannot seriously be expecting me to analyse my political beliefs to a total stranger as if I was filling the gaps in a questionnaire!"

"You seem like one of those people who would be politically active."

"I _am_ an activist. My two friends you met the other day are members of our group."

Grantaire whistled. "There is a group, then! And you are the leader, of course."

Enjolras sighed, irritated. "I can't recall saying anything about a leader. We are equals who strive towards a common goal, to give power to the people, to fight for their rights, to release them from their chains."

"It is your duty to convince me to attend your meetings, then. Imagine that you have to convince me to throw the government off the stairs, to assassinate a tyrant with a razor blade or to go out in the street naked to protest for equal marriage. Tell me about your motives, tell me what you believe in. Convince me."

Enjolras was clearly offended at that point. He ran his fingers through his blond locks and snorted, leaning forward. "You obviously are drunk, for a reason which remains unknown to me, as it is ten o'clock in the morning. However I would beg you to show some respect for certain things, such as someone's beliefs, as you most clearly don't own any of those."

"Is it that hard, Enjolras? I'm asking you to try and make me believe in whatever your cause is, to convince me to attend one of your meetings!"

Enjolras caused Grantaire to jump in the air by slamming his hand on the table. "You are being nonsensical and immature, and I most definitely do not want you to attend any of our meetings!"

Before any of the two men could say another word, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had already made their appearance out of nowhere, as Enjolras and Grantaire were way too lost in their tensed argument to notice them. "Did I hear something about meetings?" smiled Courfeyrac. "And are you that book seller we met last week? That's interesting, how did you manage to get Julien out of his room and in our favourite café? We never succeed at something like that!" he faked a hurt sigh. "I see he already has managed to get you interested in our group. Are you coming to the meeting tonight?"

"Probably, if I have no other engagements better than to change the world." Smiled Grantaire.

"No, he isn't coming!" snapped Enjolras.

Combeferre shot him a disapproving look. He didn't say a word, but Enjolras knew when his friend thought he was being too harsh on someone. "He's a cynic." He quickly explained.

"It would be interesting to attend a meeting though." Grantaire shrugged his shoulders.

"You are welcome anytime. We accept people who wish to help in any way, or simply watch our manner of working, even when they don't completely agree with everything we support. New blood is always good for a revolution."

"Any kind of blood is a necessary ingredient for a revolution." Said Grantaire, but that comment ceased to bring another smile on Combeferre's face.

"See you this evening at six, in Café Musain." Said Courfeyrac. "Do you know how to find it?"

"Yes, I used to work quite near." Grantaire got up and left a few coins for his coffee on the table. Enjolras hadn't even ordered a drink. "I must be going now. I have things to do. Not to rally the people of France, of course, but who knows, I might soon be interested in being engaged with noble deeds!" he made a few steps away.

"See you tonight, Pylades!" said Courfeyrac with a kind smile.

Grantaire stopped and turned around. "It's Grantaire. You can call me R."

Enjolras had fixed his eyes on Grantaire while the latter was walking out of the café. He realized that he had indeed worn red. A cotton long sleeve shirt, which made an unnatural contrast with his faded complexion and extremely dark hair. _Red doesn't suit him at all. _He had thought, in a way which surprised even himself. He wasn't used at noticing such details about other people.

After a couple of weeks, Grantaire dropped the book stand and gave all the remaining books to his friends. He devoted himself completely to _Les Amis de l'ABC. _He devoted himself with his presence, though not with his heart. He never missed a meeting, he became a part of them and everybody grew to consider him a dear friend, though he never believed, and he never missed the opportunity to say so. Enjolras would find it particularly difficult to cope with the cynic and he never came to understand him, though he was particularly tolerate towards people.

Grantaire had found everything he had thought for lost in his Orestes, and he would never regret becoming an unaccepted Pylades.

**That's enough of flashbacks and E/R from now, the next chapters will mostly focus on Eponine, Marius and the other Amis, before I return to those two:) I really hope you liked it, please review, it will mean so much to me!**


	4. I could be yours

**So, I promise that from the next chapter the plot will start changing from what you already know. I hope you like this chapter! **

**I've turned 18 today, and I really don't know how to thank you Grantaire_and_his_Bottle for her amazing, touching fic that she wrote for my birthday! You should definitely read it!**

**Do me a birthday present and leave a review, your opinions matter more than the world to me!**

**Thank you!**

_I could be yours if you write me a letter_

_I could be yours if you see me in the street_

_I could be sometime always or never_

_I could be all__ of the things you'd ask of me_

_I Cou__ld Be, Kyla La Grange_

Eponine Thernardier ran at the door when she heard a knock. Her mother had passed out in the kitchen after drinking a bottle of gin, and she was certain that something similar had happened to her father, though in some place outside the house. Azelma happened to be at school, which was a rarity. As for Gavroche, nobody had spotted him for a couple of days, but she didn't worry. Her little brother was more than capable to take care of his own self.

That left her to be the only one to answer the door and see who it was, and a fair reason to do so was her growling stomach and the fact that she hadn't had anything to eat for a day. Somewhere between her exhaustion, a peculiar instinct of survival gave her hope that the door was being knocked by a huge pizza, or a human size steak.

She most certainly had not expected Marius Pontmercy to be standing on the doorway in a clean light blue shirt, grinning at her. His very sight was equally exciting as that of walking food. At the same time she felt quite uncomfortable for her unwashed, frizzy hair, and her stained t-shirt which was hanging upon her skinny awkwardly. "Monsieur Marius!" she whispered, feeling her cheeks flushing ridiculously, and her heartbeat increasing. _"Qu'est-ce que vous faites là? _You shouldn't come here, or else m' old lady will hear you! Ah Marius, excuse my stomach, it's very rude but I haven't eaten anything today, but tell me, what do you want so early in the morning,

Marius was looking slightly uncomfortable with the girl's confusing rambling, but it was obvious that he felt bad for the situation she had to live in. "I was going to the university, I have a lecture and I will meet Bossuet and Courfeyrac and maybe Bahorel, and you know they'll be glad to see you…"

"Really, will they?"

"Sure, not Bahorel though, I'm not sure about Bahorel, sometimes I don't even know if he's happy to see _me_!"

"That's nice, that you invite me at the university, I could have gone myself there if I didn't have to help m' old man, I'm not stupid, you know, I was good at maths when I was at school, but I never caught any of the others…"

"So are you coming? And I promise I will buy you some food."

"Food?" her eyes opened widely. "Like, could I have a hamburger?"

Marius looked as if he had almost started to regret inviting her, as he clearly felt quite uneasy at that point. "Uh, sure, you could have a hamburger."

"With fries?"

"Yes, you can have some fries too!"

"Oh but you surely are so kind m'sieur Marius, because you know we hadn't had anything to eat and Azelma went to school today only because they feed them there but there's no more school for me…"

"Maybe we should hurry, Eponine, my class starts in half an hour."

"Yes sir! I mean Marius!"

Then, a terrifying voice was heard from inside the apartment. "Who the hell are you talkin' to, 'Ponine?"

That was Mme Thernardier. Marius had spotted her a few times as she rarely ever left her house, though he often heard her shout or laughter from inside his room.

"No one. Sleep it off. I'm going out."

"Go bring m' something to eat." The woman growled, after Eponine closed the door behind them.

Marius found it quite uncomfortable to have such noisy and dirty people for neighbours, especially when their family relationships were so confusing. He hadn't seen their youngest boy for days. The way Eponine and her parents spoke to each other was quite unfamiliar to him, no matter how frustrating his own family and childhood years had been. However, he pitied Eponine and enjoyed her company, and his friends encouraged him to bring her in the meetings so that she would find a way to fill her hours.

Eponine, on the other hand, was extremely excited that everybody in the street could see that she had a friend, who not only had invited her to the university, but had also bought her hamburger and a coke, even if this wasn't an appropriate meal for someone at nine o'clock in the morning.

It was true that Marius had stopped trying to understand her rambling somewhere in the middle of their way to Sorbonne, and he was more than thankful to spot Courfeyrac and Bossuet waiting for him outside, between other students who were chatting and laughing. When Courfeyrac spotted Eponine, he made a curtsy, and she laughed in a noisy, quite inelegant way.

"It is very nice to see you, Eponine! How have you been?" Bossuet smiled fondly.

"Marius bought me a hamburger!" she exclaimed proudly.

Courfeyrac shot his friend an amused look. "Well, it has always been clear that Marius knows how to treat a lady!"

"We should go, it's a quarter to nine!" Marius looked at his watch and they started walking inside.

"You won't believe what happened!" Bossuet waved his hands dramatically in their way to the class. "I took the leaflets Enjolras gave me to make photocopies and hand them back before the meeting tonight."

Knowing his friend's bad luck, Marius could only put the worst with his mind. "Did you lose the photocopies?"

Courfeyrac tried to hide his laughter. "Something worse."

"They gave me the wrong photocopies at the printer's. Turned out to be brochures of an old ladies religious organization with occasional tea parties!"

Courfeyrac, who had definitely heard the story again, burst into laughter. "You can't imagine Enjolras' face when he saw them!"

"I don't want to!" Marius laughed.

"It was not pleasant at all." Bossuet shivered at the memory.

The lecture turned out to be on insignificant interest, even for the three students, let alone for Eponine who hardly understood a word. The teacher was over eighty, had trouble handling Powepoint, was forgetting his points and repeating himself, and however Marius enjoyed learning, he found himself yawning long before the lecture was finished.

"That was even worse than Enjolras' history lessons." Muttered Eponine after they got out.

Courfeyrac laughed whole-heartedly, and Bossuet asked her whether she was coming to that night's meeting.

"Nah, I can't tonight, m' old man wants help with his work."

"What does he do for a living?" asked Bossuet curiously.

The question somehow made Eponine feel uneasy, and her cheeks flushed as she muttered "he does… things. Not steady, you know, from here to there!"

Bossuet nodded as if he had understood, Marius thought that Monsieur Thernardier probably lived somehow like Grantaire who went from one job to another, or like Feuilly, who was struggling to make ends meet with his two jobs in order to pay for his apartment and to be able to continue his studies.

The unlike company was walking outside the building, as it was Thursday and they didn't have any more classes, apart from Bossuet who would continue with Economic History later. Eponine had grown even more cheerful now, as the three men around her were actually trying to make a conversation. It was true, that the things Monsieur Marius told her were the most interesting, and his shirt was prettier than Bossuet's sweatshirt, and even monsieur Courfeyrac didn't have such pretty freckles, -in fact he didn't have any freckles at all- thus her heart would skip a beat when he would address her, and she was more than happy to try to impress him with her answers.

However, her happiness wouldn't last for long. Before they walked out of the building, a blond typhoon bumped into Marius, and a loud noise was heard as heavy books and notes fell on the floor. Marius and Courfeyrac kneeled to help the female typhoon with the books. The girl also kneeled, apologizing in a soft, sweet voice, a _thousand_ times. As Marius handed her a pack of notes, his eyes fell on her creamy satin hands, and her delicate fingers. He raised his eyes and his heart stopped.

Under the curtain of soft blond curls, there was a pair of huge blue eyes, too shy to properly meet with his own, a pair of flustered cheeks, like a girl who was neither a child not a woman yet, had been caught looking at someone that she shouldn't. Accompanied by the most beautiful half open lips, lips that shouldn't be defiled with one's touch, innocence that shouldn't be disturbed as well as a daisy shouldn't be cut from the field in order not to wither…

The girl took her books and rushed to her lesson, clearly ashamed to begin a conversation. Marius only managed to get a glimpse of her twirling sky blue dress, which had clearly gotten out of fashion decades ago, as she entered her classroom and sat in a desk at the front row, before the door closed.

It took a while for Marius to properly stand up and follow the others outside. When he got back in his senses, he realized that Bossuet was laughing.

"Now that was something!" Courfeyrac whistled.

"She was an angel!" muttered Marius. "Such serenity cannot be held by a human being, such beauty cannot be described in anything but songs, such elegance can be nothing but prevailed upon my…"

"And such a dress cannot be worn from anyone but my grandmother!" Courfeyrac interrupted him.

"She was an angel." Was the only thing Marius could breathe.

Eponine's heart was racing unpleasantly in her chest. "No, she isn't," she heard herself saying. "She's only… Cosette!" She was in the same shocked state as Marius. Her eyes fell on her rattails of hair, on her dirty t-shirt and her torn jeans, as pictures of a tiny blond girl with a broken doll which missed an eye and half her hair filled her mind. How could such things be?"

Marius had immediately woken up. "Do you know her? Tell me, 'Ponine, did you say her name?"

"That was Cosette. We went together at kindergarten."

"What do you mean, 'Ponine, tell me, I beg you!" Monsieur Marius looked so excited, his kind eyes were glowing, he was offering her the warmest of smiles and Eponine wanted that smile to remain. She wanted him to be happy. "She lived with her ill mother, who would ask my parents to keep her some nights when she had to work. That lasted a year." She knew that her parents had demanded payment from that poor woman to keep an eye on her daughter for a few nights during the week.

They would always call her the whore. "She died soon after and the girl went to the orphanage. We never heard of her again."

She could remember pulling the little girl's horrible doll from her hands to play with it, she could remember Cosette crying under their kitchen table, she could remember her mother hitting Cosette a few times.

How could such things be?

"Cosette." He mouthed, as if he was holding a treasure upon his lips. "Oh, 'Ponine, I have to meet this girl! You brought me luck!"

"Yes, that most definitely wasn't me." Muttered Bossuet.

"You're the friend who has brought me luck!"

Marius squeezed Eponine's thin arm, but Eponine didn't shiver at his touch, she didn't sigh or feel her heart beat faster.

Monsieur Thernardier wasn't happy to not find Eponine home when he returned in the afternoon. She would pay for her disobedience when she'd get back.

Her heart had been broken before it had even realized it existed.


	5. There'll be no value in the strength

_And in the middle of the night  
I may watch you go.  
There'll be no value in the strength  
Of walls that I'll have grown  
There'll be no comfort in the shade of the shadows thrown  
But I'd be yours if you'd be mine  
Lover of the light, Mumford and Sons_

Éponine was quite used to running away from home temporarily, especially at times when her parents' mood demanded it. She would always return though, as she couldn't stand sleeping in the street. That wasn't something she hadn't experienced. Sometimes she would go to Montparnasse's place and plead him to keep her for the night, but to do so she had to be lucky enough and find him in the appropriate mood. There was always the possibility for him to tell her parents where she was too, not to mention that she would have to be prepared to deal with his sexual impulses. Sometimes she would deny and fight him back. Some others she was simply too tired to even try…

That evening, Éponine was incredibly lucky to have an invitation for the meeting of Les Amis de l'ABC. She knew she had declined, but after what was waiting for her when she arrived home, she decided that she would better leave; becoming a clochard for one more night, certainly didn't sound appealing.

She had pushed Cosette at the very back of her mind. She was sure that Marius would have forgotten her by now, after all he didn't know anything about her. People didn't really fall in love so fast, did they?

After managing to get away from her father, she desperately knocked Marius door. He opened it and stood in the doorway, a cream shirt over his jeans. "Éponine?" he asked, surprised. Marius had been so lost into his thoughts during the whole evening, that he hadn't noticed the shouting and the noise coming from his neighbours' apartment. "What are you doing here?"

"Can I come with you?" she asked breathlessly. Her hair was a total mess, and she carefully threw it upon the right side of her face, her t-shirt was stained and dirtier than it had been in the morning. Marius sighed and wondered whether she would be offended if he finally offered her a decent shirt to go out in. "Uh, yeah, I guess the others won't mind. Just let me take my jacket."

He disappeared in the flat, and returned wearing his jacket. "Let's go." He said.

Éponine started feeling all warm and safe again. He was her own friend, and he still wanted her with him. Nothing had changed, everything was completely alright. She opened her step so that she could follow him, as he was walking rather quickly. She had already forgotten what had happened at home, and a smile had appeared on her face as she jumped playfully behind him. "Are we going to the Musain?"

"No, today's meeting is at Combeferre's place."

"Is he the one who lives with Bossuet?"

"No, that's Joly. Combeferre lives with Feuilly. Prouvaire spends some nights with them as well, as he's having his flat painted. Feuilly helps him with the painting."

"Is Combeferre the dude with the glasses?"

Marius nodded. "That's him. The medical student."

Éponine remembered. In the previous meetings, she had exchanged very few words with Combeferre. She didn't know anything about him, as she rarely understood exactly what he said every time he spoke, together with Enjolras. She wasn't really interested in meeting him, as he seemed way too serious and educated to want to hang out with her in first place. She was fonder of Courfeyrac and Bossuet, maybe Joly sometimes too. Joly was a medical student who, unlike Combeferre, was quite hypochondriac. He would feel his own forehead rather often, and diagnose Enjolras with a million different exotic diseases every time he'd look tired.

Marius looked absent minded, and Éponine finally understood that he wasn't in the mood for discussion, therefore she just walked behind him silent. Not more than a few minutes had passed, he turned around and faced her, with a dreamy smile in his charming, freckled face. She smiled back fondly and continued to walk.

"Do you think I'll get to meet her, 'Ponine?"

Éponine stopped walking, feeling something heavy sinking in her stomach. "Who?"

"Cosette." He said slowly, as if he was embracing the name with his tongue.

"I don't know… She's just… Cosette." Éponine didn't notice how hostile her voice suddenly sounded.

However, neither did Marius. He had noticed very few things going on around him since afternoon. They remained quietly as they rang Combeferre's bell, until they entered the apartment.

Everybody was already there and the meeting had started. Enjolras, who was standing up, next to Combeferre, and had probably been saying something, shot them a disapproving glance and continued, however he was interrupted again by Éponine's scream.

"Gavroche!"

Half of the friends jumped up, startled, and turned to look at Éponine who was still standing at the door. The others immediately turned their heads at the direction of a blond, sweet-looking child, which was no older than nine, and was seated between Courfeyrac and Grantaire, wearing a pair of faded jeans, and a t-shirt which most definitely belonged to an adult, as it was reaching to his knees. The boy noticed the young woman and offered her a toothless smile. "Look 'oo's here! 'Ponine, what are you doing in our meeting?"

"No, what are you doing here?"

Courfeyrac's eyes were frantically travelling from the one to the other. "Do you know each other?" he asked incredulously.

"Well, of course we do! He's my little brother, and he hasn't appeared at home for a good five days!"

Bahorel burst into noisy laughter. "Didn't you know your own brother's coming to our meetings?"

"How do you know him?"

"I'm Courf's friend!" exclaimed Gavroche proudly. "We've been mates for a fair two years or so!"

Éponine turned to stare at Courfeyrac, with her eyes wide open.

Courfeyrac nodded. "He stays at my place for the time being. Little Gav comes to visit very often."

"That's so kind of you, to keep 'im at your place, mind you, you should keep him a little more, for my old man won't be entirely too happy if he returns!"

Courfeyrac ruffled Gavroche's hair. "He can stay as long as he wants!"

"There are video games there. I'm definitely staying." Gavroche said simply, shoving a little sandwich from the plate on the table in his mouth.

"I'm quite glad that Gavroche has found his sister, but could I ask for the permission to continue our meeting?" Their leader's harsh voice woke the friends up, they returned to look at him. His expression was particularly irritated.

Éponine waved her hand in the air. "Sure, dude. Spit it out."

Enjolras now looked extremely annoyed. He shot a deathly glance at Bossuet, who was whispering something in Joly's ear. "Would it be so difficult for you to be quiet so we can go on, my friends?" he asked. "Marius already pur the meeting off program."

Bahorel turned to Marius. "That's true. How come? Marius is never late." He teased.

Marius, completely forgetting about his guest, took a seat beside Joly. "I've met a girl!"

"No, he hasn't! She just dropped her books on his feet!" protested Éponine quietly, but no one had eyes for her anymore.

"Ah yes, Marius fell head over heels for a girl today at the university!" nodded Bossuet cheerfully.

"She was a good one! Though I didn't manage to figure out much, what with the granny dress she was wearing!" laughed Courfeyrac.

Combeferre felt Enjolras stiffen dangerously beside him, as all the men in the room leaned forward, craving for some news concerning Marius' love life. "What do you know about her?" asked Prouvaire.

"Only her name."

"Well, things are getting pretty serious, then!" barked Bahorel, causing Marius to blush.

"She's an angel, I tell you! A true angel with blond hair and blue eyes! I want to spend the rest of my life with her!"

"Don't you have to meet her first?" asked Joly seriously.

"That's a tiny, insignificant detail!" Marius seemed desperate. Combeferre couldn't help but watch Éponine, who was still standing by the door. He half closed his eyes behind his glasses, and managed to notice a big bruise on her right cheekbone. "How will I meet her?" asked Marius mournfully.

"Write her a letter." Suggested Prouvaire, smiling. "In the old fashioned way. I can help you, if you want."

"Oh, Jehan, you are a true friend!"

Grantaire, who had been particularly quiet until that moment, raised his beer bottle in the air, and patted Marius on the back. His sarcastic eyes, however, were fixed on Enjolras. "That's a quite interesting turn of events! Marius finally, at one and twenty, discovers the magic hidden under a female's skirt! I don't even want to imagine what will happen when he gets to raise that skirt and explore the wanders of a pale thigh!"

Everyone was laughing uncontrollably. Combeferre knew that Enjolras could not get any more pissed off. The leader made a step forward. "That's enough, Grantaire!" he said fiercely.

Grantaire, however, didn't need another sign to continue. "You feel ready to throw the government in the air, Enjolras, but who'd have thought that your followers would apparently feel the entirely humanly urge to get laid?"

"Who cares about your humanly urges?" erupted Enjolras, his dark eyes piercing Grantaire. "Who gives a damn of your childish love affairs? I have no doubt that you don't mean bad, Marius, but in case you lot have forgotten, our brothers are getting murdered every day because they have a different skin tone, clochards exist, as if we lived in the nineteenth century, people don't have to eat, they don't get educated, they are not free! You must certainly ask yourselves of what you might be asked to give. You have to realize that our cause, our duty to our land and to our fellow men, is stronger than any school crush!"

Grantaire had leaned back at the leader's burstout, and had his icy blue eyes fixed on him, with an expression Combeferre could not read.

"You don't understand, Enjolras!" Marius exclaimed desperately, his hands in the air, his face having the same shade of ginger with his hair. "If only you had seen her, if only you know what it was like to drawn into those lakes she had for eyes."

Enjolras didn't look touched at all from Marius' innocent moaning. He looked tired and overly irritated. Combeferre noticed his best friend's eyes resting disgustedly on Grantaire even more than they did on Marius. "You have to devote yourself to democracy. If we bring freedom to our land, then you will all be able to love, then love will be all that people will learn to do."

Marius opened his mouth, probably to praise his precious Cosette again, but Combeferre couldn't overlook the way Éponine would stay silently in the corner and stare at Marius with a painful expression. The bruise on her cheek, which had obviously gone unnoticed from everyone else, made Combeferre's heart tighten unpleasantly. He decided that it was enough. "Stop it, Marius." He said seriously. "Enjolras is right. We are here to fight fascism, you will have all the time to catch up after the meeting."

Everybody had already been silenced and ashamed after Enjolras had brought them back to reality. Everyone, apart from Grantaire, who was the only one who didn't believe in their efforts. Grantaire was staring at their leader sarcastically, his bottle in his hand, his boots rudely on the sofa. Enjolras was insistently ignoring his glance.  
Combeferre's disapproving glance, silenced the drunkard, who he simply return to his beer, drowning his thoughts in the liquid.

The meeting went on successfully, and everyone was even more passionate for their cause than they had been in the beginning of the evening. Combeferre, however, couldn't help but frequently examine Éponine's face with his eyes, together with the way she would hang upon Marius Pontmercy's indifferent lips, and wonder who really was that girl, and what exactly was the story she had behind her.


	6. Grace in your heart Flowers in your hair

_And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears  
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears  
Get over your hill and see what you find there  
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair_

After the Storm, Mumford and Sons

It tended to happen sometimes. The air would become quite thick and heavy and unpleasant, he would seek comfort in an open window but the noise of Paris streets wasn't always welcome. His head was already a chaos, most of the time, he most certainly didn't need any more distractions.

That afternoon the window had already been opened, it was not cold and the stray sunrays were supposed to help him inhale more easily. However the knot in his stomach was present and unwilling to let him forget for a while and clear his mind.

Jean Prouvaire sat on the wooden floor and sucked on the cap of his pen for a while, staring at the blank page of the yellowish notebook on his lap. He absolutely loathed that feeling. He had so much to write in order to clear his head, so much to say, yet he felt unable to scribble the most naïve and simple of words. The sight of the paper, always so beloved and dear to him, now only made him feel sick. He took a deep breath and massaged his temple, abandoning the pen on the floor, ignoring the fact that his fingers were staining his freckled skin with ink, those fingers who had gotten ink stained in vain that day, as he hadn't managed to write a single sentence down.

It would pass soon, he would stop thinking and get over it, it would pass in the same way the grief for a lover with whom one's ways had parted passed. It always passed.

He was willing to sit through the process patiently, Prouvaire wasn't a man who avoided grief of any kind. He embraced every different feeling which came to him with patience and examined it thoroughly, the very process deeply fascinated him and inspired him. Jehan could deal with grief.

Not with grief which was driven by shame, though. That was a thing he couldn't easily bear.

He was a patient man, kind and tolerant, though with strong political and social views that couldn't easily be shaken. He would stand up and defend his beliefs no matter how unwelcoming the background would be. His soft and dreamy glance would become fierce and shrill, should someone offend or threaten the ideas of equality, love, acceptance or freedom. Freedom was the most important gift in Jehan's life. He had devoted his being trying to be free, not exactly in the same way as the other Amis de l'ABC fought for freedom, but in his very own way, a freedom from the chains only he was aware of. A caress of a lover, a slight breeze of air on a sunny day, the nobility in the way a flower would die, the sound of a pen against a piece of paper, such small things brought him closer to freedom. Sometimes Jean Prouvaire was a free man.

Some others he wasn't.

He wished that he could always be in control of himself, that he would not be ashamed, that he would not let anyone affect his writing.

Jehan was a true angel, but he was no God. He had humanly weaknesses, and he did not always manage to stay unaffected of any kind of criticism.

His phone was ringing and, though it took him a while to sober up from his thoughts and notice, he threw himself up and ran to the kitchen where he had left it, his bare feet thumping on the wooden floor.

He had a horrible relationship with technology. A true remainder of another era, lost and confused and unable to understand the fascination people found in touch screens, he would always forget to add his contacts' names in the memory of his mobile phone. He would politely postpone Combeferre's suggestions to help him with it, and ignore Courfeyrac and Bahorel's teasing with a chuckle. However, he was familiar with the number he saw on the screen, and the variation on his heart rate made him feel calmer and more comfortable, unlike the frustration that would cause to other people.

"Jehan?" Feuilly could be heard distantly with much noise in the background, he most certainly was in public transportation.

"Good morning." Prouvaire took a seat by the kitchen table.

"Dzień dobry! I was thinking of coming for a while before going to work." The other man made a pause. "Jehan, are you there?"

"Yes, yes. I'm listening."

"Are you quite alright? Because you don't sound so."

Another pause, now from Prouvaire's side. "Yes, Marcel. I'm alright. Don't you worry."

"Another letter came, didn't it?" came Feuilly's voice, mixed with traffic sounds.

Prouvaire didn't answer. He didn't need to. Feuilly knew.

"Have you had coffee? Do you want me to bring something for you to eat?"

Prouvaire smiled softly at the phone. "You need not to worry for me, dear Marcel. I'm  
neither fragile nor an invalid."

"You aren't. I'm bringing some coffee, yes?" a pause. "Do you wish me to come or you'd rather not?"

_No, no don't come. I don't know if I'll keep pleasant company, I'm not myself, I don't think I should see you today._Jehan looked around at the empty apartment, then at the open window. He shivered and realized that the knot in his stomach couldn't be ignored. He could use some company.

"Yes." He said finally. "I wish that you come."

Turning the phone off, he returned to his tidy office and searched for different human rights organization pamphlets, he had promised Enjolras to have a look at. He held them in his hands and stared for a while. A skinny Asian child was staring back at him with melancholic eyes from an amnesty organization pamphlet. He felt weak, a lump appeared on his throat and he left the pamphlets back on the desk. He couldn't deal with it for the time being.

He thought of snuggling by his accordion on the couch and compose a piece, but there was little difference from his writing. He felt that he couldn't do it, he felt that he would fail miserably.

He lay on the couch, his long legs hanging by the arm, playing with a thread from his denim overalls. He quite enjoyed the sounds of silence, the observation of his own breathing, the sound of the fabric as he moved his leg rhythmically back and forth against the arm of the couch.

He heard a knock on the door, and got up. Feuilly was standing on the doorway, a paper bag in the pocket of his old jacket and a messenger bag over his shoulder. Jehan leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his raw, unshaven cheek. The working man handed Jehan the paperbag. "I've brought you a coffe and apple pie. You like apple pie, don't you?"

Jehan smiled. "You are a precious man. Thank you. Come inside."

They walked into the living room and sat on the same couch, Feuilly with his arms hanging awkwardly, as usually, and Jehan cross-legged, his thin ankles exposed and his back leaning on a pillow. "How are you today?" he asked, trailing his fingers over his partner's knee, absent-mindedly.

"Furious, in fact." Feuilly raised his shoulders. "Clash between Israelis and Palestinians, thirty five injured."

A shadow covered Prouvaire's eyes. "I didn't hear. I didn't go out much, and the television seems to only show parasites."

"I must fix your antenna."

"You can't fix everything, Marcel." Smiled Prouvaire adoringly. "See, you've hurt your finger." Jehan's long and slender fingers embraced Feuilly's callused own carefully. There was a fresh wound, dry yet deep. "Did you get cut while working?"

"Yes."

"Have you made a new fan?"

Feuilly smiled bitterly. "Actually, I have dozens of the old ones for you, if you want them. Nobody really cares for buying handmade fans in the twenty first century."

"I would buy all the fans that your fingers have created, if you let me."

Feuilly was a man of few words, but his eyes said more than he needed to let out sometimes. He lowered them and stared at the messenger bag on his lap. "I have brought my German, we could study together, I could help you if you'd like. I've also brought…" he raised his eyes and fixed them in Jehan's. "There is a fan I cannot complete, yet I won't rest if it doesn't come out perfect, even if nobody wants to buy it. I thought that maybe you could help me."

Jehan's hand squeezed Feuilly's arm. "Show it to me." He whispered. "You needn't even ask."

Feuilly carefully took the fan out of his bag. It was a beautiful work of art, yet unfinished. The craftsmanship was perfect and the painting, done completely by hand, was in shades of yellow and pale green, with some spots of blue and  
earthy tones. There were young men and women sitting on a bloomed field, in another era, Jehan could recognize the nineteenth century dresses. It looked marvellous, only a couple on the corner wasn't finished, and it left space for some wondering. The man looked kind and fairly good looking, yet in a pale, reversed way. He reminded them of Joly. The woman's face hadn't been drawn in detail yet, her body figure was still blurry, only her hands had been drawn, and they were breathtaking. The hollow on her wrist, the pale, full fingers, the curve of her thumb. They reminded of only one thing to Prouvaire: motherhood.

"Make her pregnant, Marcel." He breathed.

Feuilly stared at him incredulously. "What?"

"Make her pregnant, give her a round stomach and a pair of caring eyes, give her a heart full of love. Give her a lilac dress of arrasene and hair of chestnuts."

Feuilly's finger caressed the figure he had created on the material. "Why?"

"You are a boy orphan of mother, Marcel, yet you have given birth to so many precious things around you. You've nurtured the people, you've embraced humanity, you've nursed art. Sometimes you are a mother to me, as ridiculous as this might sound. You give me birth every time we couple, I get to see the light of a new world and have the opportunity to start everything all over again, like a newborn free of sins and of mistakes."

"Ever the poet." Feuilly muttered softly.

At the sound of these words, Prouvaire's eyes dropped, innocently like a child told it was time to stop playing outside and go to bed.

Feuilly put his thumb under the pale, sharp jaw of the overall delicate man. "Show me." He said softly, in a way they never used much words to understand each other. Jehan got up and returned with a letter. Feuilly's eyes ran over the letter, he frowned slightly, then placed it on the arm of the couch, as if its importance was less significant than that of toilet paper, or of the paper bag which contained apple pie, without the apple pie. "They won't publish it. So what? Why would a newspaper's opinion affect you in any way?"

"Writing is my lover, Marcel."

"And what that leaves me to be then, may I ask?" the working man teased.

Jehan leaned forward and placed a peck on the chapped lips. "You are my consort, it is different. You are loyal. It is not."

"It is loyal, Jehan. Your work is beautiful."

"Not everyone thinks so."

"You should be ashamed for your words. You are an artist, you are a free man, a fighter against homogeneity, a species of your own. When did you, Jean Prouvaire, seek for acceptance from the others in order to believe in anything you wanted to believe, or act in any way you wanted to act?"

"It's not quite the same. I am a dreamer, but at the same time I'm hungry to offer. I want people to feel something, I want to bring a change to society, how can I if I'm not worthy enough."

"No more words." Jehan felt Feuilly's raw finger on his own lips. "You're offering enough already. Do you know who you are writing for, Jehan?"

"I know, I write for me, but that's not enough, I…"

"That's wrong." Feuilly interrupted him, his fingers playing with a stray auburn lock of the poet. "For us."

"What is wrong? What do you mean?"

"For us, Jehan, you write _for us._"

"For… us?"

"For you and for us. For you and for me. I won't talk about the others, I won't talk about Combeferre, no matter how much he loves your work. You write for me."

"You are very kind to read my work and give me your opinion, Marcel, your help is…"

"You don't understand. I don't read it to help you. I read it because I need to do so. You are obliged to write for me, Jean Prouvaire. Consider it your duty."

Prouvaire's heart was racing. Feuilly rested his own hand on his chest, over the overalls, as the poet lay his head on the working man's lap.

"Cover my petals with the warmth of your heart, Marcel, for I'm a flower uprooted from Mother Earth, and sun fails to track me down."

Feuilly took Prouvaire's hand in his own, and brought his knuckles to his lips. The two artists remained there, focused on the sound of their breathing, until Feuilly had to leave for work. Jehan took his pen in his hand when he was left alone. He had a duty to accomplish.


	7. La vie en rose

**Listen here. This is officially the stupidest chapter I have ever written! In my entire life! So please excuse me, and there must be a tone of mistakes, but I don't have an internet connection so that's the reason I'm posting it quickly because I don't know when I'll have the chance to get in front of a computer again. Please be gentle. After this piece of ridiculousness I promise there is going to be a decent different plot.**

Cosette Fauchelevent was a girl who dreamed quite often, both when asleep and when awake. It wasn't rare for her to confuse her dreams with reality. She had a wild imagination, yet she was so innocent that it was easy for her too fool someone that she was born in another era. She couldn't help dreaming of her mother, a mother she barely remembered, who remained in her head only as a distant feeling, as a scent or as a touch. During daytime she would try to imagine how her mother was, and she would end up making stories she would eventually take for true and keep as actual memories in her mind. In her sleep, her mother would return to hold her, as if she was a baby; in a white dress, beautiful like a princess. Cosette had seen a picture of her mother, and she looked much like a princess; a modern day one, in high heels and a short white dress, her hair brown and short as well, a wide smile full of white teeth, and a pair of huge dark eyes. Her colors were much different to Cosette's, but the shape of their features was almost identical.

And her mother would return and hold her, and play with her dollies and comb her golden hair, and sing her a lullaby, her very own lullaby, which had always been Edith Piaf. The only actual memory that Cosette had, and which hadn't occurred as a result of her vivid imagination, was the words her mother sang her the few times they got to be together when she was a baby, in order to put her to sleep: _Quand il me prends dans ses bras, il me parles tous bas, je vois la vie en rose…_She knew that her mother had a beautiful voice, and Edith Piaf had become Cosette's favourite through the years, ever since she was a little girl. A girl who had just been orphaned from a mother she barely got to ever see until then, and ended up in an institution, thankfully not for more than a year, as she soon was adopted.

Her father had arrived to take her from that cold place and she knew that she was safe in his strong arms, a tiny, thin child not older than four, who had already met terror in the unwelcoming institution and, before that, in a lady's house who would keep an eye on her when her mother was at work. All she could remember from that house was the noise, the shouts, and Éponine. There was another girl as well, but she didn't remember her name. It was only Éponine she would never forget, Éponine who would take her own dolly even though she had all the new and glossy Barbies, and a bike of her own.

From the institution she didn't remember anything, all the other sad children of her age had grown to become faceless in her memory. She remembered that she cried all day, that she was afraid and cold, and that the blanket smelled like an old lady.

And then her father, _papa_, had raised her in the air and she had shrieked and giggled and thrown her arms around his neck. He had said that he would always protect her, and she had said that her love for him would be bigger than the sky.

It was in Cosette's nature to love endlessly and selflessly. He taught her how to tie her shoelaces and how to read, then he taught her how to swim and how to build a tree house. The years passed, he taught her history and latin, he taught her forgiveness as well as to recognize the different species of birds in the city.

In return, she gave her all her love, and spared some for her dolls, for a few friends she made in school, for the poor people, for the ones who slept in the street.

But Cosette still had much love to give.

When she was a little girl she would dream of a castle and a prince, a handsome prince with blond hair and blue eyes who would love her forever and sing her songs and take her on his horse.

Now she was eighteen, and few things had changed. Cosette had always been in love with the very idea of love, a trait she was sure she had inherited from her mother. Now, she had found her prince in a single glance, just like Sleeping Beauty had in the movie, and he didn't have a horse, he wasn't blond and she was sure that there were freckles on his face, but she didn't care. His face had kept him awake all night, her heart would flutter only with his thought, she had no intention of eating and she preferred to retire to her pale blue childhood room, which made her papa worry that she was ill.

She didn't have anyone to speak to. Her best friend had moved to study in Lyon after they finished high school¸ and she wasn't social enough to have made new ones in university. Her father had never been the most appropriate to help her with many issues after she entered life as an adolescent, and that often caused her utmost confusion.

She didn't have the faintest idea of what was happening to her. Was she in love? But how could she be? She didn't even know his name, she had only seen her prince once, and then immediately ran away from him. Was it possible that love was what she felt? She would probably never see him again in her life. Sorbonne was a very big university, she would never get to meet every single student in there. And even if she saw him again, what would she do, what would she say? Would she say anything?

As much as she adored her father, at times like that, Cosette Fauchelevent desperately wished for a mother.

Tea with papa was quiet that evening. She kissed him goodnight very early, leaving him even more worried, and tried to concentrate to her studying, behind the closed door of her room. It was impossible. She closed her eyes and imagined kissing his lips, being held in his arms, her hand in his own. Such innocent thoughts made her heart race madly under her lilac sweater, and she twirled around in her room, singing _"Il me dit des mots d' amour, des mots de tous les jours, et ça me fait quelque chose…"_

She couldn't even imagine how similar she was to her mother.

***

What Cosette would never expect, would be that when some dreams were not meant to be, some others were. What Cosette would never expect, would be to find a letter at her desk in the classroom, waiting for her, even with her name on it. What Cosette would never expect, would be that she'd turn out to be so incredibly lucky to find that the letter was from her prince.  
And what Cosette would never expect, would be that the prince would know how to write poems.  
Cosette clutched the letter to her heart and she thought she was going to faint.  
After being able to collect herself, and to ignore the professor for the first time, she took a pen out of her bag, and with a shaking hand, she scribbled something on a piece of paper. Then she kissed it, even though she didn't have lipstick on, and placed it under her desk.

***

Marius Pontmercy was a smart man, who knew three different languages and was studying law. However, Combeferre would sometimes call him "misguided". He had spent a phase of being a devoted communist. In fact he became one, after learning that his father who had died before he could meet him had been one also, during the 60s. The fact that he'd never met his father, and had always thought highly of him, and the urge to go against his grandfather who raised him and was at the extreme right wing, made him overly sentimental and passionate with all the communist leaders. He read Lenin and fell sick for a week, then fought with his grandfather, Monsieur Gillenormand and left his house. He was obliged to work hard in order to be able to pay the rent of the little room to the Thernadiers. He had noticed the usually collected Combeferre clench his fists while he talked to them dreamily about communism one day, and how it won against Nazism. He had asked him if something was wrong. Combeferre had calmly but fiercely talked to him about Stalin's ways and he had exclaimed that even though the Soviet effect had been of massive help in the Second World War, he had reminded him the way the communist countries of Europe ended up, communism was rather anachronistic and far from perfect a system. Marius had remained speechless, pale, he had fallen on a chair heavily. Combeferre had squeezed his shoulder, warmth had returned in his eyes behind his round spectacles. "There is no flawless system, nor can there ever be. We just need a better one, and we need progress. We must learn from the past without sticking on it. Communism is not the way to be free."

"She's replied!" he shrieked, bursting into Jean Prouvaire's room. "She's replied!" his face was so flushed that his freckles were hardly visible.

Prouvaire was sitting on his bed with Bahorel and Feuilly with sheets of paper on their laps and they were planning a march which was going to take place the following week. He raised his pale face and smiled softly. "Did she? That's amazing, Marius!"

"She's replied!" the young man continued mumbling, nonsensically.

"Well," asked Prouvaire patiently. "What did she say?"

"She said, _That was beautiful, did you mean it?"_ Marius was proudly showing them the piece of paper with the neat yet shaky handwriting.

"Well, you both are quite the geniuses in the matters of love." Chuckled Bahorel. Marius shot him a menacing look. "What do you mean?"

"If you're going to continue in that pace, you'll have some action when you're both through menopause!" He received another menacing look from Prouvaire, this time, and a pillow on the head from Feuilly's direction. Prouvaire turned to Marius again.

"You are very, very lucky. However you deserved it, your poem was truly beautiful."

"No, no, but you helped me! Half of it was your work! I owe it all to you, my dear friend!"

Feuilly knew that Marius is right, but Prouvaire was denying it. "You deserved it."

"Ah, you have to meet her, my friends, you are all going to love her!"  
"Of course, we'll meet her at the wedding, for things are definitely getting pretty serious here! And we are surely going to love her, especially if you let us share!"  
Another pillow hit Bahorel straight in the face.

"Now what?" breathed Marius. "What will I do?"

"Another poem?" suggested Feuilly, who was secretly really fond of poetry, particularly when it came from his lover.

"Maybe."

"Go on and meet her, buddy, fuck this nonsense!" cries Bahorel. "Leave a picture of you in your underwear instead of a poem, or maybe a picture of me in my underwear, if you want to stand more chances." There were no more pillows left, therefore Feuilly hit Bahorel's head with a pile of papers.

"I think he's right." Muttered Prouvaire, of all people. "We're in the middle of very dark times. People need some love. Ask her to meet you."

The color drained from Marius' face. "Don't you think it's too soon?" but then he thought of his precious Cosette and of the chance of pressing his lips on her. "Fine." He clenched his fists. "Let's do it."

_  
That morning, Cosette forgot how to breathe. She collapsed on her chair, ignoring the giggling and teasing of her classmates who had noticed her unusual behavior.  
She stared at the precious paper again, disbelievingly.  
_"Saturday at seven o'clock, meet me at the Café Barricade outside the Sorbonne."_


End file.
